


talkin' 'bout you and me (yeah) and the games people play

by gumpekulla



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Child Abandonment, Child services what's that, Disowning, Forced rehab, Gen, M/M, Mycroft Being Creepy, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Mycroft-centric, POV Mycroft Holmes, Pre-Slash, Referenced Animal Abuse, Seriously the bulk of this story is just Mycroft and no slash, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock is late to the game, Sibling Incest, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, The word sociopath is thrown around a lot by characters, Time Skips, so to speak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 11:30:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7932949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gumpekulla/pseuds/gumpekulla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>At seven years old, mummy tells him she’s pregnant, and Mycroft doesn’t share his thoughts. A year is a long time to learn, and he’s getting better.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>But when William Sherlock Scott Holmes is born, Mycroft isn’t good enough.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“They share a mark,” mummy cries softly in the night the day she comes home with William from the hospital. “What are we going to do? We can’t tell Mycroft!”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“You don’t think he’d understand it’s...wrong?”</i>
</p><p>When they find out their sons share a mark, they make a desperate decision. This is Mycroft's story of the aftermath. Soulmate AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	talkin' 'bout you and me (yeah) and the games people play

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the song "Games People Play" by Joe South.
> 
> Hooo-boy. I don't know where this thing came from. I wrote it in one sitting during the course of like five hours. Please ignore the glaringly obvious plot holes lol.
> 
> Anyway, there's a link in the story ("here's my counter-offer") which leads you to a tumblr post of a GIF set that has Mark Gatiss dressed up as a solider/agent/officer/something saying the line which is the link. I haven't looked up where it's from yet but I couldn't resist including it!
> 
> That said, please excuse any typos or grammatical errors! English isn't my first language and this hasn't been beta-read. I think I managed to tag all the relevant warnings too, but if I missed something please let me know and I'll add it!
> 
> Uh, I can't remember if there was something else I wanted to say before getting on with it...so yeah, enjoy!
> 
>  **[EDIT 19/09/16]** I fixed some typos and added some words, nothing big. There are probably still lots of mistakes in there, sorry about that! I wish google docs' spell-check didn't suck so much XD **[END EDIT]**

**o-O-o**

When Mycroft David Alistair Holmes is born, he bears no soulmark. This is not something unusual, as many are born before their soulmates instead of after, or around the same time, as them. It could be years before his soulmate would be born, and in some rare cases, never at all. Mr and Mrs Holmes hopes it will not be the latter, of course, but they aren’t that worried that they might have to wait a few years. People rarely expect tragedy to befall them or the ones around them, until it does. And having no soulmark, or getting one then losing it, are considered great tragedies indeed. Or so Mycroft is brought up being told.

At five years old, he starts to doubt it. Because people are _idiots,_ despite what mummy says. To call someone stupid, moronic or slow are _bad things_ , but Mycroft does not care. Adults treat him as if it’s a given he won’t be able to understand the simplest of things, then become offended and angry with him when he points out their own idiocy. If these older and supposedly wiser people are anything to go on, then other children must be absolutely _dreadful_. More stupid than a fish, swimming around in circles in a bowl, never knowing there is an ocean out there. It cannot be a blessing to be saddled down with any such being, he reasons. He much prefers books, and would rather not _ever_ have a mark on his skin. He checks himself all over in the mirror every day, dreading it.    

At six years old, he’s caught experimenting on the neighbour’s dog. He’s merely testing behaviour patterns, as a dog is easier to manhandle into the desired situations than a full-grown adult. There are no children around, after all, so he has to make do. Preferably, he’d read himself to the desired knowledge, because he does so hate to make the physical effort, but he cannot find the appropriate books in mummy’s and daddy’s library. They think it’s a first time, and an atypical, occurrence. Until the cat, the puppy and the birds.

He’s taken to a doctor - it’s a children’s psychiatrist, but mummy thinks that he believes it’s merely a mandatory check-up - and asked questions. It’s frustrating, because he knows his answers are somehow _wrong_ , but he doesn’t yet possess the knowledge to turn them _right._ The doctor, who is an older man with a beard and glassy blue eyes, keeps frowning at him and taking copious amounts of notes. _Underdeveloped empathy - possible sociopathic tendencies. High intelligence. Manipulative. Could escalate._ Mycroft reads it upside down when they both stand to say good bye, and the doctor puts his notes down on the desk. There are more scribbles, but those were underlined. Mycroft was supposed to start primary school that autumn - year four, despite that he tested for year five and passed - but mummy tells him he will be educated by private tutors.

“I think it’s better for you,” she says with a strained smile. “This way, you can have an education tailored to your needs. You’re such a smart child, Mikey. This way you won’t be bored!”

It’s a shame he won’t have access to other children - he is so interested in people’s simplistic natures and how they function, what he can learn about them until there’s nothing left - but there is some truth in what mummy told him. Even so, he knows that on some level, he’s failed. He doesn’t quite know when people went from being awed at his “smarts” to being frightened, but now even his parents have stopped praising him with any genuine excitement. Instead they eye him warily for each of his intellectual achievements, and talks about having another child when they think he’s not listening. He hears them wondering if that might help him form meaningful emotional connections, and he wonders what he has with his parents if they think he lacks it now. It hurts, and he thinks it’s awfully unfair. Daddy might be a moron, and mummy painfully overbearing, but they are all he’s ever known about safety and rewards and support. _They want a better child,_ he thinks, stoically pragmatic. One who isn’t “wrong”. A stupid one, no doubt. He doesn’t want to dwell on the ugly feeling in the pit of his stomach, focusing instead of the opportunities this presents: another child, under the same roof. Someone to observe and direct from birth and onwards.

At seven years old, mummy tells him she’s pregnant, and Mycroft doesn’t share his thoughts. A year is a long time to learn, and he’s getting better.

But when William Sherlock Scott Holmes is born, Mycroft isn’t good enough.

“They share a mark,” mummy cries softly in the night, the same day she comes home with William from the hospital. “What are we going to do? We can’t tell Mycroft!”

“You don’t think he’d understand it’s...wrong?” daddy whispers with a worried voice, and Mycroft shifts uncomfortably where he sits on the other side of the half-closed door of their bedroom. Mummy laughs brokenly, and Mycroft frowns. He wonders why his parents still assumes he’s an idiot. His soulmark appeared with a red itch the moment his baby brother was born. _Of course_ this means his soulmate has arrived in the form of his little brother. Why they think they could conceal it is beyond him.

He opens the collar of his pyjama shirt and runs a finger over the subtly raised skin over his heart. Their mark is fully black; two crows in flight. Intelligent birds, and though often connected with death, they are also considered a sign of luck for some, or associated with trickery and deceiving appearances. It is the mystery of life and magic, destiny, intelligence, alchemy, higher perspective, flexibility, manipulation and mischief. In the hours since the mark’s appearance, he’s done as much research as he could into his mark’s symbolism. On his part, it’s very fitting. He isn’t so sure about the screaming and wailing infant on the other side of the door, though.

“Think, Siger. Think about what he did to those poor animals, just because he wanted to figure something out. He fully understood why it was wrong, but he _didn’t care._ Do you really think this will be any different?” mummy says once her quiet laughter subsides, sounding desperate.

“Violet…” daddy sighs. “He doesn’t even _want_ a soulmate. Perhaps...well...”

“Have you heard the way he talks about other people? About _children?”_ mummy exclaims, pausing when it causes William to let out a disgruntled noise from where he’s finally asleep. Lowering her voice again, mummy continues. “Sooner or later he’s going to get it into his head to test this thing out. He doesn’t understand soulmates and our marks, Siger, and he hasn’t had a desire to find out. But now? With his own soulmate, living under the same roof, completely helpless to whatever whims he has? It won’t end well, darling.”

Daddy lets out a shaky breath and groans as if pain. “How could this have happened to us, my dear? How can fates be so cruel?”

They whisper long into the night, a hushed dialogue of misery. What Mycroft gets out of it, reading between lines and tears, is this; fates had nothing to do with this, somehow it’s Mycroft that is in the wrong here. He’s always been _wrong_. William is an innocence, an unfortunate child. Oh, mummy and daddy doesn't say this, but Mycroft is smart. He knows he and his little brother won’t be allowed to live under the same roof, and he knows perfectly well who will not be allowed to stay.

At eight years old, Mycroft David Alistair Holmes is disowned and put into foster care in London to await an adoption that will never come.

**o-O-o**

Sentiment, Mycroft thinks, is a dangerous thing. If you allow yourself to care, you also allow yourself to be hurt, and if you can be hurt you can be incapacitated. A stupid, masochistic and suicidal thing to do. However, there are certain things he allows himself, because knowing your weaknesses means you can fortify against possible attacks. And so, he keeps the name given to him by his parents, despite the abrupt end to his childhood. He does, however, change his surname as soon as he is legally able. He has been severed from _that family_ for many years; it seems unfairly cruel to be forced to continue bearing the name.

He chooses Corbin, a variation of Corbeau. The latter would be too obvious. It’s French, for “crow”.      

**o-O-o**

He watches the children around him make themselves into statistics. Foster children, shipped from place to place; unstable environments and questionable guardians. Falling into the “wrong crowds”. Drugs, crime and reckless sex (teenage pregnancies, STIs). State funding falling short, people lacking ambition and any kind of respectable intellect. It’s pathetic and nauseating. He stands out from the beginning; too smart and a vicious streak to rival the worst of them. His parents feared him; these people are too stupid to recognise that they ought to. Fists and outnumbering the perceived “weak ones” is the language they speak here. He wanted to observe humanity, and he gets to do so from up close. Raw and pitiful, it is the very dredge of society that lies before him. The wealth of information he gathers would be staggering to a mind not his own, he thinks. Oh to only be able to pursue one track of thought at a time! How tragically simple of them. They are so easily manipulated, it’s almost sad.

With the right amount of information about anything, and the knowledge of how, where and when to use it, Mycroft finds that power is not far from his fingertips. And power is very exhilarating for someone who has found himself denied it for so long.   

**o-O-o**

At eighteen years old, he attends Oxford University. Had circumstances allowed it, he would have applied for the right to early submission. He excels, however, as he suspected. His teachers are in awe of him, fascinated by his eidetic memory and his thought process (a scientific way of thinking he has developed on his own but which he finds has already been discovered; deductive reasoning which allows him to dissect his environment and the people in it down into their smallest components. Paired with his ability to assess probability continuously based on the ever-flowing intake of information he receives, it makes him a very dangerous young man to these feeble minded people, though they might not know it).

He studies political science because humans and their political (and social) structures fascinate him. He studies mathematics, languages (adding Mandarin, Russian and Spanish to his repertoire of French, German and Latin), law, psychology; his course load raises many eyebrows. He speed reads books and sleeps little, passing exams and finding ways to circumvent the issue of mandatory attendance for most of the lectures. He is determined to rise above his origins, to make himself into a man he wants to be. Degrees which look good on paper and which benefits him intellectually will pave way to a wide range of possibilities.

He will seat himself in a position of power where he will be untouchable; invulnerable and superior.

**o-O-o**

At twenty years old, Mycroft Corbin is approached by the MI6. It saves him the trouble of coming to them first, and he only takes his time to consider the offer in order to not appear too eager. You may have people _believe_ they have something you want, but you must never let them _know_ it. He is encouraged to finish his studies and graduates within just a few years.

Taken into training to serve Queen and Country, he continues to excel.

**o-O-o**

He has encountered enough people begging for mercy to have gone from amused to annoyed. That they would try and bargain for their lives is ridiculous, when they have denied it to so many others, these genuinely sick and twisted brutes (for Mycroft does not consider himself as psychotic as some would assume him to be; he would now, as an adult, never hurt a child. Rape is a pathetic cruelty. Taking enjoyment in slaughtering the innocents - no matter how moronic they may be - is far beneath him. Really, he is quite reasonable, though severely self-serving and decidedly sociopathic, according to some. That long-ago, now-buried children’s psychologist had not been wrong in his assessments).  

[ “Here’s my counter-offer,” ](http://gumpekulla.tumblr.com/post/149802109666/shaddicted-arlessiar-enterprisery-hes) Mycroft says in reply to the men huddled in the room, several key-players in a human trafficking ring. They are trying to bargain their way out, offering information in exchange of better deals. As if Mycroft is with Interpol and feeling even the slightest bit of sympathy. As if Mycroft doesn’t already know everything they could possibly say. He continues, smiling, [ ”I let none of you go, and shoot all of you many more times than necessary.” ](http://gumpekulla.tumblr.com/post/149802109666/shaddicted-arlessiar-enterprisery-hes)

In the end, he doesn’t waste any bullets. Fear is often more potent, since shock can dull a lot of pain. He takes pride in his work being precise and efficient. He kills three of them with clean shots to the head, while his men take out the rest. The room smells of gun shots, ammonia and blood. Pungent and sharp. He wrinkles his nose. It is high time for a promotion; active duty has been educational but _the legwork_... Hardly worth another five years of his life.

**o-O-o**

At twenty-nine years old, Mycroft gives in to temptation. He doesn’t bother lying to himself, nor does he construct some kind of excuse for what he’s doing. No, this is purely in his self-interest and because his soulmark has gone from a dull dark grey to its original pitch black hue. That can only mean that his soulmate - his baby brother - is once more close by. The exact science of the relation between distance and soulmarks have not been fully explored as of yet, but it is a logical conclusion to assume William Holmes is now in London. He would be twenty-three years old by now; a young man. In the structure of Mycroft’s mind - a mental mansion to store memories and information in rooms and cupboards and boxes - the “Holmes Family” and “Soulmate” compartments have been long since locked. He has spared them little thought over the years, and he’s only wasted time contemplating them in order to build defenses against them, should anyone ever try and use them to attack him.

Now though, he is in a position where he is more than capable of seeking the answers he wants with minimal effort. And so, he allows himself this brief act of sentiment (for that is what it is; soulmates remain distasteful to him, but the niggling idea of having one of his own has never really left him. Mrs Holmes had been right about one thing; had he grown up with William, he would not have been able to resist the chance to explore their connection).   

Mycroft finds him in a hellhole of a flat on Montague Street. William has an impressive academic record, and attended Cambridge early to obtain a degree in Chemistry. All the bearing of a success story, if not for his many therapist appointments growing up. It was all dull stuff; the boy was hardly the sociopath Mycroft had been - rightfully, perhaps - accused of being. Simply someone with slightly above average intelligence suffering from something that might or might not be a mild version of Asperger's. Diagnoses matters little to Mycroft, unless there is something to be gained from making them. The boy had (and mostly likely still has) difficulties understanding and mimicking acceptable social behaviours, though possessing a decent moral understanding. As a result, he’d been mercilessly bullied and had lacked the tools to properly deal with it.

Now here he is, a Cambridge graduate living on his parents money still, because every penny of his own money is quite evidently going to drugs. Unable to resist, Mycroft goes to inspect it himself, this tragic story of a spoiled only child wasting away his “genius” while leeching off of his doting, unsuspecting parents.

He has a key, of course. He lets himself in. The flat smells of dirty laundry and stale air, dirty dishes and the rotting waste of an overflowing bin bag. Strolling inside, he pushes his way through the litter covering the floor with the tip of his umbrella. Idly he wonders if William will notice, or if he’s as unobservant as the rest of them. He reads William’s life in the scattered books and shirts, sees his routines in the scuff marks on furniture and dirty fingerprints on cupboards. Lost, desperate. Pathetic.

The mark on his chest itches.

He leaves before he does something he’ll regret.

 

**o-O-o**

Mycroft watches from afar as his people drag a young man forcefully into a black car. He’s a lanky, unhealthy-looking youth; dark curls limp from grease, cheeks sunken in and eyes wild. On his arms there is certainly an ugly scattering of needle marks. His ribs would be bruised from the beating he took last night after saying the wrong thing to the wrong people, in desperate search for a high.

He will be admitted under the name Sherlock Byrd and provided the best care. On his chest are two crows in flight: one slightly ahead, while the other is forever in pursuit.

Mycroft has yet to decide who represents what.

**o-O-o**

The rehab takes, Mycroft thinks, only because it has left William Holmes with a seemingly unsolvable puzzle. Who were the men in the black car? Who sent them, and why? It seems the little fool has no time for drugs now, a fact his parents are ironically grateful for. They’re too relieved that their son is clean and pursuing a career (William is apparently smart enough to know he won’t get anywhere without funds) to wonder what lies behind it.

If only they knew, Mycroft thinks with no small degree of satisfaction. The decision to involve himself in his soulmate’s life was starting to look like it might be...fun. A concept he has not entertained since...perhaps ever.

**o-O-o**

At thirty years old, they come face to face for the first time. For a year, watching William run himself in circles trying to figure things out has been a better source of entertainment than Mycroft could have ever imagined. However, while he might be a very patient man, he also wants to see results at some point. Since William seems unable to get to them himself, Mycroft decides to be benevolent and offer him some crumbs. He is also curious of what the younger man might observe about him, ignorant of his true identity.

And so, he orchestrates a meeting.

William has gone and gotten himself an employment in the laboratory of St. Bartholomew’s hospital. A few strings might have been pulled on Mycroft’s part, much to his own disgust. However, as he himself is now occupying a minor position in the Department of Health (a purely administrative position, of course, since he would have to be able to transfer around to other departments as needed), it seemed practical.

He bumps into the distracted young man in a corridor, disrupting the tray of samples he’s carrying. William curses, flushing with frustration at the collision.

“Watch it!” he snaps, looking up from checking that the samples survived to glare at Mycroft. He has an extra inch or so on William, which evidently annoys the man from the way he adjusts his stance; straightening up to appear taller, tilting his head back to foster an illusion of looking down his nose. “You idiot, do you realise what you almost did? Of course not!”

Mycroft raises a brow at the verbal assault, not at all surprised by the bad manners but giving a show of it all the same. He doesn’t have time to retort, of course, as William seems to be done eyeing and assessing him.

“Great, another governmental drone sent to cut our funds, with no regards to the scientific breakthroughs that are being prevented because you value your ‘business expenses’ to the Continent above all things of substantial matter!” he sneers. Casting a derisive look to Mycroft midsection, William snorted. “Enjoyed one too many scones thing morning, did you? I’d advise you not to take the lift because of the weight limit, but you are clearly not a man equipped to deal with stairs.”

It is decidedly unimpressive; Mycroft had hoped for more. He’ll leave a hint before his departure, and see if it will go better next time. “Mm, yes. The tragic story of the underdog; an overworked lab assistant with no knowledge of things beyond a chemical equation. Please, do proceed with your groundbreaking scientific research. I’m sure people are _dying_ to know how to identify the ashes of different tobacco.”  

With that, he brushes past the irate man with a completely sincere air of detachment. His soulmate will have to work harder to gain more of his interest.

They are not far from the lift, and William has turned around to face him as he walked past. Stepping into the lift, Mycroft presses the button, and looks him straight in the eyes. “So, Sherlock. Figured it out yet?”

 _Sectoral heterochromia_ , Mycroft thinks idly as William’s eyes widen in shock. _Quite lovely._

The lift’s doors closes just as Mycroft sees him take a step towards him. He’s gone long before William has conquered the stairs.

**o-O-o**

It is rare of Mycroft to ever be in a place without any designs. He always has a specific reason to be anywhere that isn’t his office(s), the Diogenes or his home. You will not catch him taking a leisurely stroll through Hyde Park unless he wants you to, for example. Clearly, William does not know of this yet, as he seems to be of the opinion that he has this mysterious older man cornered by chance.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” he demands, taking a rough hold of his arm. Mycroft smiles blandly, coming to a halt.

“How about we take a seat, and converse like a pair of civilised gentlemen?” Mycroft suggests, tilting his head towards a nearby bench. William looks wild, almost trembling with energy, but considers it only for a moment before he forcefully drags Mycroft away and pushes him down to sit.

“Who are you, why did you do it and what do you want from me?” he asks impatiently as he settles himself next to him, keeping a hold of his arm. Mycroft tsks in disapproval.

“Use your brain for once, Sherlock,” he drawls. “You see but you do not _observe_.”  

Clearly taking it for the challenge it is (there is hope for him yet), William leans back and looks him over, much more closely than he did at the hospital two weeks past.

“You work in government, seemingly in the ‘Department of Health’. I tried tracking you down that way but had no name to go on and your picture isn’t included in anything I could find. You had no appointment in the lab and you never once angled your face to be shown on any of the security cameras. Somehow the lift dropped you off on another floor than the one it showed you were going to. That day, I was dragged into a government car by several trained men, presumably agents. I was essentially abducted and put through rehab without any troubles, it’s not even part of my record. You have the means and power to accomplish all this. So, government, but most certainly not the Department of Health. Are you MI5? MI6? If so, what the _hell_ could you _possibly_ want from me?”

Reaching over, Mycroft pries the man’s fingers off his arm and answers calmly. “Well done. Now think a little harder, or I will leave and we shall resume this at another time, when you are being less slow.”

William bristles, visibly annoyed with spots of red high on his sharp cheekbones. “Sherlock Byrd. You chose the name for a reason.”

“Yes,” Mycroft smiles.

“Sherlock is easy, it’s one of my middle names. You’ve access to that and much more, I’m sure. But Byrd?” he continues to reason out loud, eyes narrowing. “It’s a variation of the surname Bird. You could only--but of course. It’s because of my mark.”

Mycroft nods. “Indeed.”

“That’s all?” William demands indignantly, somehow shocked as if Mycroft hasn’t already been handling him crumbs on a silver platter.

Rising up from the bench, he looks down on him with a tight smile. “Walk with me, please.”

William jumps up and follows, eyeing him as they wander through the park in silence. He is smart enough to realise he is best off holding his tongue, for now. They are both aware, after all, that Mycroft can walk away from this and never return. He has no intention to, of course, but William has not guessed this yet.

A black car pulls up just in time.

“Thank you for a pleasant talk, Mr. Byrd,” Mycroft drawls with a mocking smile, opening the car door. William seems to remember that this kind of car came with some rather strong men that were armed and well trained, because although it is obvious he is dying to catch a hold of Mycroft's arm and pull him out again, he refrains.

“You bastard,” he growls instead, clearly livid, clenching his hands into fists at his sides.

Before closing the door in his face, Mycroft meets his eyes. As entertaining as all this has been, he does have other things to deal with. Perhaps it is time to put an end to this stage of their game. “Ah, I seem to have forgotten my manners. The name is Mycroft Corbin. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sherlock.”

Once more, he savours the look of shock on his soulmate’s face, before the car pulls away and leaves the young man behind to process his final clue.

He will figure it out, though he will only be scratching the surface of their connection to one another. The rest will come in time.

**o-O-o**

“You’re my soulmate,” William declares the next time they see each other. The man has found one of Mycroft’s decoy offices, barging into it four days after their meeting in the park. Mycroft is behind his desk, shuffling papers and looking busy. William slumps down in the visitor’s chair, eyeing him intently until Mycroft deigns to put his affairs away for another time.

Focusing on his rude guest, Mycroft smiles thinly in greeting. “Congratulation. You took your time, but you got there, I see.”

“Stop that!” he hisses, angry again. So easily rile, it is quite amusing.

“Stop what?”

“Stop treating me like I’m...I’m some ordinary _moron!_ ” he exclaims.

Mycroft chuckles. “Ah, but to me, I’m afraid you are. I admit, compared to the tedious masses, you are quite intelligent. But to me? Oh, dear Sherlock, you are quite slow.”

William sneers. “My name is _William_.”

“Yes, that is one of the names your parents gave you,” he agrees. “However, Sherlock is the name which connects to where I put things into motion for us. I find I much prefer it.”

“My parents know about you, don’t they? That’s why they were always against me looking for my soulmate. They kept trying to convince me a crow symbolised something wicked; that it meant my soulmate was a bad person, someone who was fundamentally _wrong_. Were they right?” Sherlock - for he now has a taste for the name, and he likes how uncomfortable it makes the younger man - retorts.

“And yet, there are _two_ crows,” Mycroft counters, smiling coldly. “Does that make you _bad_ and _wrong_ as well, Sherlock? They are a pair, after all, our marks.”

The young man is clearly hesitant. Mycroft knows what is going through his mind; doubts. He has grown up feeling as if he’s separate from everyone else, alone in the world with no one like him. It is true, of course, and he must realise this on some level despite all the expensive therapy.

“Why don’t they want me to meet you?” he asks after a few moments of silence, voice hesitant and somewhat small in the room.

“Because some would diagnose me as a sociopath, maybe even a psychopath. I am self-serving and think little of humanity as a race, let alone as individuals. I live in a world of goldfish, surrounded by stupidity. I’ve known about you since you were born, yet I haven’t taken an interest until recently. I am calculating and cruel,” he replies with as much honesty as he can allow himself. Sherlock regards him warily, but with an ever-growing interest. “My memory is eidetic, and I observe people and I know everything about them; what they’ve done that day, the state of their marriage, how likely it is that they will take the tube rather than a cab that day. I see you and I _know you_.”  

Sherlock swallows, clearly nervous but excited against his better wishes. “What are you saying? Are you warning me, or are you..?”

“I am telling you, Sherlock, that you have not been alone or unique in this world. I preceded you by seven years. Statistics are in favour of soulmatches; presumably, we should be well suited for one another. I decided I wanted a chance to figure out if that is the case. Trust me when I say I am being generous here, because I am giving you an opportunity to walk away now, should you wish to. This is your only chance, for I will not make another offer,” he explains.

“There’s...there’s something more,” Sherlock breathes, leaning forward in his seat, eyes wide. Mycroft smiles slowly, curious how things will go from here. Oh, he has an idea, but he could be wrong, and that is exhilarating.

“Yes. I was not born Mycroft Corbin, but Mycroft David Alistair Holmes. Mycroft and Alistair is from my biological mother’s side of the family, and David from my biological father’s side. At eight years old, I was disowned and put into foster care.”

Sherlock gapes at him, clearly working things out. He goes pale. “You’re...you’re my brother. They told me you were a stillborn.”

Titling his head, Mycroft hums thoughtfully. “So they made a mention of me? Surprising.” Leaning back in his chair, he regards his baby brother with genuine curiosity. “And so, we come to the conclusion; will you stay, or will you walk away?”

Clasping his hands, Sherlock looks down for several moments, the silence heavy between them. Finally, he takes a deep breath, and looks up. Their eyes meet, and Mycroft knows he was right. Those kaleidoscope eyes are steeled with determination. “I’m staying.”

Mycroft stands up slowly, and circles his way around the desk to lean over Sherlock where he sits. Grasping his chin, Mycroft brings them together for a chaste, close-mouthed kiss. His little brother’s breath hitches, eyes fluttering shut, and he relaxes in his hold. Breathing across his parted lips, Mycroft voice is low and full of promise. “Excellent choice, brother dear. Let’s make it worth our while.”

One game ends, and another one begins.

 

**o-O-o**

**Author's Note:**

> I miiiight write more, not sure. I'm so tired now I can't even imagine thinking of, let alone WRITE, another story for a while lol.
> 
> Please leave a comment! :D It would be much appreciated! :)
> 
> Also, I'm gumpekulla on tumblr as well if you wanna drop by! :)


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